Tears of the Cynic
by Alpacca Joe
Summary: Red-tinged emerald eyes opened to the thick smear of blood across her fingers.    Her heart fell, and she sighed.    "Someone is going to die today."


**Tears of the Cynic**

Dec 29, 2009

**From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,  
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,  
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,  
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.**

**...One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,  
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.**  
_~Death Be Not Proud by John Donne_

Daria awoke in a fog. She lifted her head from the pillow, hair stuck to the side of her face and ruffled with sleep, to find a single glistening ruby perched upon the white linen pillowcase. Unease gripped the girl and the last fuzzy fingers of sleep fell away as she stared down at the blood droplet and slowly, a trembling hand traced her cheeks, lips, nose, chin. Nothing. Daria's eyes closed as her fingers wiped first tear duct, then the other. Red-tinged emerald eyes opened to the thick smear of blood across her fingers.

Her heart fell, and she sighed.

"Someone is going to die today."

Daria lowered her head into her hands and wept.

Jane watched her friend out of the corner of one bright blue eye. Daria seemed much quieter than usual, almost depressed. Normally they would be trading snarky banter, or Daria would turn to Jane and insult some random idiot as an aside. But no, today she was sullen and distant. Jane was worried.

Daria walked through the school hallways with head down, mind far away. She had learned long ago that it was useless to try and guess whose life was to end that day; it was not possible either, to distract herself from the unpleasant event she knew the day held. Nothing was to be done but to watch, and wait. Daria sighed and missed Jane's worried glance. If only for once she could be wrong, and not the ticket on which was written some poor soul's admission to oblivion. The despondent teen sighed again and tears threatened, true tears. With ease borne of long practice they were brushed aside and in effort to forget her unhappy situation, Daria plunged head-long into her day. Fate took pity on her and the plan succeeded.

For a while.

Jane waved as she headed off to Science and Daria smiled despite herself and waved back. She decided to stop at the bathroom before Study Hall to rinse her face and apply some eye drops; her vision had been blurring for the past half hour and it was driving her crazy.

Just as Daria entered the restroom a girl stepped out of the middle stall. She wore a blue jersey tee, denim skirt and brown mini-pack. Her brown hair was done in twin braids. The girl, a freshman, froze upon seeing Daria; her deer-in-the-headlights expression might have been comical if not for the words she spoke.

"It wasnt a dream."

Daria's heart broke. This girl was so young, and yet here her life was at an end.

"No. This is the dream." Daria confirmed in her quiet voice and as one, they shed their one bloody tear. Daria moved forward to embrace her, and Stacy Rowe was no more.

Daria sat on the hood of a random car in the student parking lot, kicking her feet and watching the shadows play across the ground. The paramedics had ceased their questioning and commended her on her quick action. Stacy's body had been loaded into the ambulance, the remainder of the school day canceled. It was only an extra fifteen minutes of freedom, but even that was appreciated.

An aneurism. Stacy had been an extremely high strung girl, on many medications whose contrasting side effects had ultimately caused the clot which traveled to the girl's brain just this afternoon. It was only a matter of time, they said.

As usual, the death was fitting. She thought now of Tommy Sherman; the man had thought himself a hero, his inflated ego and swelled head only brought down to size when flattened by the goalpost he was to be honored with.

Fitting, yes, though it made the task no easier.

Guilt sill gripped her when she recalled the idle way she and Jane had joked of Sherman's demise. Jane was innocent of blame, but Daria knew better. The tears had come to her that morning and still she had joked of death with the knowledge she would be seeing it before the day was done. Still that discussion weighed on her, the not-quite argument she had had with Jane concerning the jock's death. Those words came back to her now.

_I'm not miserable. I'm just not like them._

She watched after the departed ambulance and amended that statement, now weeks old.

"I am miserable," she whispered to herself as the lot emptied. "and no one could ever know how alone."

Jane found her soon after and together they made their way home.

Daria stood at one of Jane's large windows, the heavy drapes pushed aside. It was near dark and heavy clouds rolled across the sky.

Helen had made no objection when her eldest called to say she would not be home. In truth it had come as something of a relief: Quinn had gone into hysterics over her friend's death and locked herself into her bedroom.

One traumatized daughter was work enough.

Jane entered with a box of pizza in her hands, a two-liter of Ultra Cola cradled in the crook of her right arm like a newborn. Plastic cups were balanced on the box lid and wobbled as Jane set her burden down on her unmade bed.

"Soup's on."

Though she had no appetite, Daria turned from the window as the taller girl poured the soda and walked over to hand Daria a cup.

"You seem kinda out of it." The bespectacled girl stared down into her cup, took a sip, shrugged.

"Bad day." Understated, but nonetheless true.

Jane nodded and swirled the cola in her cup. The bubbles popped and sprinkled her hand with tiny drops of sugar-water.

"I talked to Quinn. Before I found you." Silence. "It sucks that you had to be there." A nod. Jane sighed and pushed ahead; this was Daria- beating around the bush would get her nowhere. "Quinn said she found you two, before the paramedics got there." A quick breath, then the plunge.

"She said you were crying."

Daria finished her drink and turned back to the window. Night was coming on swift feet, just ahead of a raging storm. Daria felt it and knew more than just raindrops would be falling before the dark claimed the world.

"Daria?" A hand touched her shoulder, but she did not turn. "Amiga? If you need to talk, I'm listening. I mean, you didn't even bat an eye about the whole Tommy Sherman thing-"

"Tommy Sherman didn't die in my arms."

Jane was taken aback. Daria had spoken in her usual near-monotone, but there was a heat there Jane had never heard before.

"Is... is that why you..."

"Everybody cries, Jane."

"You don't."

Lightning flashed across he sky and Daria whirled on her friend, eyes blazing. Livid streaks of red glowed on her cheeks, lips pressed together into a thin white scar. Jane stumbled backward a few steps in shock; though she had known Daria but a few short months, the girls had gotten to know each other fairly well- better almost then their immediate family.

Over the weeks, Jane had seen a range of Daria's emotions, which most people would have written off as arrogance or sarcasm. This, however, was the first Jane had seen Daria truly angry.

"Everyone cries, Jane. But the difference between me and them is that when I cry, someone dies."

Daria took a step forward and Jane stumbled into her bed and fell onto the mattress with an ungainly plop.

"I-it's normal to cry when people die-"

"No, Jane." The short, auburn-haired girl stood silhouetted in the window, a living shadow with glowing street lamps instead of eyes. "I don't cry because they're dead."

Janes eyes drew wide in horror as Daria leaned forward. Her face was in perfect view now.

"When I cry, it means _someone is going to_ die."

As Jane watched, thick streams of blood flooded down Daria's cheeks, her brilliant green eyes a haze of anger and sorrow.

It would be more than one this time, Daria knew. Many, many more.

The sky outside Jane's window was painted black, throwing Lawndale into its shadowy thrall.

**End**

_Life is but a vision- a dream. Nothing exists, save empty space and you. And you... are but a thought.  
~The Mysterious Stranger, The Adventures of Mark Twain_


End file.
